


The Difference Between Horse-Lords and Ladies

by DeepWatersWaiting



Series: The Seaward Road Runs South [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Babysitting, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Childhood Friends, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Minas Tirith, Pre-Canon, Pre-Families of Choice, Pre-Family, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Young Eowyn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeepWatersWaiting/pseuds/DeepWatersWaiting
Summary: "Uh huh," Éowyn said, an imperative brow raised in exasperation alien on the face of a five year-old. "I'm a Horse-Lord. We ride horses, silly."Boromir frowned down at her, opening his mouth to object at both the insult and the justification of how they could spend their day, though he was already making his way down the corridor that would lead them out to the stables. Éowyn knew this and gave a self-satisfied smile, stretching out in his arms before tightening her grip around his neck."But you aren't a Horse-Lord," he argued, "you are a lady! Théoden King himself said so- and your cousin Théodred and your brother Éomer.""I can be both," she declared, "because no one is going to stop me."When Boromir is left in charge with the wild niece of Théoden, disaster and chaos is promised in Minas Tirith.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Éowyn
Series: The Seaward Road Runs South [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026904
Kudos: 6





	The Difference Between Horse-Lords and Ladies

**Author's Note:**

> **disclaimer.**  
>  All belongs to Tolkien and Peter Jackson.
> 
>  **additional notes.**  
>  The ages of the characters run approximately as such for context reference: Boromir is 28, Éowyn is 5 and Faramir is 23.

August 7th 3000, TA

* * *

Boromir's first impression of the young niece of Théoden King from Rohan had been that she would one day grow up to be everything a king's niece should. Young Éowyn would evidently, to Boromir's unpractised eye at the least, inherit the best of feature and characteristics from both parents: her mother's beauty, wit and charm; her father's pride, tact and stern nature. Already the child had stood silently and demurely by the side of her uncle, cousin and brother, exchanging respectful pleasantries and curtsies with his father, charming each advisor until they melted there and then and remaining still remarkably pleasant for a five year-old when her uncle, Théodred and Éomer had left her in the company of a stranger (Boromir himself) to conduct whatever negotiations the Horse Lords of Rohan had suggested.

Now, alone with the child, his second impression of Éowyn was that she was the most terrifying _thing_ he had ever had the misfortune to meet. With eyes wide in his terror, Boromir found himself rapidly restructuring his excuse for why he would never marry if he could help it, even though he was at his most eligible, being only twenty-eight years in age- but anything that could result in a product of such horror was to be avoided at all costs, not as if his father would care for such an excuse. What had once been a well-mannered child however, was now a mischievous demon, an imp with one type of agenda in mind.

To wreak havoc in Minas Tirith.

Éowyn attached herself tightly to his legs, pudgy arms squeezing in a death grip as he flailed about to get her off of him. Something evil glimmered in her eyes, a shadow of ill-intent super imposing itself over sombre grey. Faramir had not been so as a child, Boromir was sure, because Faramir was not a servant of the Enemy designed to murder the captains of Gondor in cold blood- Faramir had been a good child who had kindly waited until Boromir had handed him off to someone else before having fits of mischief or throwing tantrums. Éowyn, it seemed, had no such problems with being a general nuisance towards Boromir, no issue with trying to cause what Boromir had no doubt could easily become a diplomatic incident between Rohan and Gondor, owing to the vicious attack upon Denethor's eldest son.

Éowyn was clawing her way up his leg, inching up and up with a steely determination had terrified. He staggered backward, pushing desperately at her to no avail as she clung on, and landed, with a pained cry, on his backside, the marble floor cold beneath him.

"Faramir!" He hollered. Éowyn had now advanced to sit on his chest, her hands grasping and pulling at his hair with a dreadful tenacity, and the support from his brother would be greatly appreciated if the younger man cared to offer it any time soon- he was, Boromir knew, in the general vicinity, no doubt loving every moment of it all. "Faramir! Please!"

Indeed, the youngest son of Denethor appeared soundlessly in the doorway of a nearby room he had obviously been hiding in, sniggering gleefully as he watched Boromir writhe on the floor with a young child pasted on to his side like an overgrown limpet. Éowyn paused barely long enough to give him a once over before deciding she was disinterested, returning to her pursuits of terrorising of the elder brother.

"You called, brother?" He inquired, happily, folding his arms across his chest before leaning causally on the door frame.

From his position on the floor, Boromir glared up at him, vision obscured partially by the strands of dark hair that fell into his face; Faramir seemed mostly immune to his ire, amused in the way only a sibling could be. _See how immune he will be,_ Boromir swore viciously in his head, _when I hurl his book from the top of Minas Tirith's tower!_

"Heard that did you?" He ground out, his hands still pushing away Éowyn and he felt a throbbing originating from the centre of his back that promised to bruise later on.

"Barely," Faramir retorted quietly, watching still with a fond eye as his brother finally took the initiative to loop his arms under Éowyn's armpits and lift her bodily up as he clambered clumsy to his feet and placed her snuggly on his hip, where she quite happily began to munch on a longer strand of his hair, slavering horribly on his shoulder.

"Barely my eye," Boromir huffed, "can you take her please? I have better things to do with my time than watch of the niece of Rohan's king, no matter how noble he is or how docile she should be but decidedly isn't."

Faramir shook his head and laughed aloud, eyes bright with mirth. "Nay, Boro, I will not take your child! Alas, for I have many an errand to run and very little time to run them. And look how good a time little Éowyn is having! How ever could I come in the middle of such joy?"

"Errands?" He echoed incredulously, "if by errands you mean wooing the young maiden whom I have spotted you frequenting the archives with then sure! Errands, Fara, don't include seducing the woman of Minas Tirith with your learned and lordly speech. Though I agree, obviously, that Éowyn is to be spared such horrors as seeing you flirt."

Red suffused Faramir's cheeks, blotchy red and spreading awkwardly over his cheekbones and the tips of his ears as though it was a yard of pale someone had spilt a glass of wine over and allowed the stain to spread slowly throughout. He didn't bother to dignify Boromir's accusations with words and turned to leave instead, still red as he plucked a heavy tome from a side table and tucked it under one arm as he went, pausing only briefly to grin cheerfully over his shoulder at the soldier standing awkwardly with a young girl balanced on his hip.

"I am sure, brother, that you will find something to occupy yourselves with, lest the child gets bored and decides to throw a tantrum!" Faramir called out, vanishing with that pronouncement even as Boromir's face contorted with horror and his gaze swivelled to look at the contented child yanking on his hair. It wouldn't do for Théoden King to venture out of negotiations and find a red-faced Boromir struggling with a screaming child, not when he had seen how protective Théodred and Éomer were over the young girl as well.

Éowyn was quite possibly the most hyperactive child he had ever encountered, bearing in mind he had encountered very few children, thrumming with a surplus of energy that he had no doubt could hardly be contained by a sedate afternoon waiting for their elders to return from council. And a tantrum... Denethor had greatly impressed upon Boromir the savagery and the fury of the Rohirrim tempers and, whilst Boromir didn't set much in store by his father's bitter insults, he had no doubt that Éowyn could meet up to such expectations if he let his attentions upon her lapse for a moment.

There was, however, very little for young children to do safely yet still be good fun in Minas Tirith when they were supposed to be a lady and the niece to a king. There was the archives where Boromir was sure there would be some assorted collection of smaller books for children, illustrated or one of the cardboard ones, but he wasn't sure his brother would appreciate him dropping by when he was on his date thing and there was only so much Boromir could take of his brother's new interest in romance and it would be inappropriate to challenge the young woman to a duel for Faramir's honour, he supposed. Unfortunately, Boromir had been banned from the kitchens for the foreseeable future (after an incident involving missing dinner cutlery, controlled explosions and wild pigeons), otherwise he would have taken Éowyn there and made biscuits with her or something.

Faramir would know what to do; children actually like him, the misbegotten spawns of Orcs and Balrogs.

In his arms, Éowyn paused briefly, contemplatively bunching her fist in his tunic and scrunching her nose up in what looked like faint disapproval- Boromir had not had time to shower before his father had demanded his presence after returning from the wilds of Gondor with his soldiers and it was keenly apparent in the very, very fresh smell clinging to his skin and his garments. Inspiration struck soon after, as he watched her purse her lips and felt her foot slam repeatedly into his thigh. Éowyn seemed to be one with very strong opinions, so why not? Why shouldn't he?

"Hey, there," he said softly, retrieving her attention from his hair and his clothing, "what do want do today, Lady Éowyn, more than anything in the whole entire world?"

Later, Faramir would tell him this was an idiotic thing to ask a child and an invitation for chaos; Éowyn, on the other hand, seemed delighted, grinning toothily up at him and clapping her hands together. She leaned closer in, like a conspirator sharing their schemes before enacting them, and Boromir unwittingly leaned in closer to, both fine golden hair and coarse brown hair falling forward to create a screen that blocked out the rest of the world.

"Horse riding!" She exclaimed in a whisper, her voice secretive as she glanced up hopefully with large grey eyes.

"Horse riding?" He repeated dubiously.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"Are you... allowed to do so? You are a lady, you realise?" He ventured, almost scandalised despite himself- ladies didn't ride in Minas Tirith, to do so being the biggest mistake one could make in their social life if they wished to rise through the echelons of society. Perhaps it was different for those in Rohan?

"Uh huh," Éowyn said, an imperative brow raised in exasperation alien on the face of a five year-old. "I'm a Horse-Lord. We ride horses, silly."

Boromir frowned down at her, opening his mouth to object at both the insult and the justification of how they could spend their day, though he was already making his way down the corridor that would lead them out to the stables. Éowyn knew this and gave a self-satisfied smile, stretching out in his arms before tightening her grip around his neck.

"But you aren't a Horse-Lord," he argued, "you are a lady! Théoden King himself said so- and your cousin Théodred and your brother Éomer."

"I can be both," she declared, "because no one is going to stop me."

A passing servant gave an amused chuckle as she passed, winking at Éowyn and openly smirking at Boromir in a way she wouldn't have dared to had he been alone, sweeping down the corridor towards one of her friends, already gesturing back at Boromir and he glared. He must have looked a right picture, with his hair a ratty mess and a child commanding him about as surely as if she held a sword to his back- no wonder Faramir had been as amused as he had been, no wonder the servant had laughed at him. Éowyn was a woman and a half; if she didn't slay Sauron himself, Boromir would be disappointed in the Valar and their choosing- or not choosing- of champions. Horse riding, he supposed, would be a good skill in someone who was evidently as spirited as Éowyn- a small trade off with her reputation that he supposed she would have to accept if she wanted to be a Horse-Lord like her uncle.

"Is that your sword?" Asked Éowyn, her eyes blinking innocently up at Boromir. Deigning to reply straight away, he moved the sword strapped to his hip until it was resting on the opposite side to the child, who eyed it with more interest then Boromir was comfortable with.

His hand still gripping the hilt, Boromir laughed. "Yes, child, that is my sword. I named it Finduilas and it has served me faithfully for many years; I cannot do without it and I have never left for a patrol without it by my side."

"Wasn't Finduilas an Elf?" Éowyn said, her voice lilting with curiosity, "in the First Age?"

"Indeed she was," confirmed Boromir, "and my mother also- Finduilas of Dol Amroth. I didn't have much time with her, yet this blade was hers, though it remained unnamed. It is a piece of her that I shall carry with me always and so I named it."

"My mama is dead too. Éomer thinks I don't know that she or Da aren't coming back."

Truly, Boromir didn't know what to say to that- he had known that Éowyn's mother was long dead, having perished in grief when the girl's father had been slain in combat with Orcs, and that she and her brother were being raised by Théoden King as his children and the siblings of Théodred. The fact that Éowyn was so... matter of fact about her parents not returning was the sort of sorrow that Boromir wanted to fight against and had been fighting against for as long as he had been able to wield a sword. This spirited girl, who would one day become a spirited woman, was mature than she should be, the vestiges of childlike playfulness he had seen in her soured by the undercurrent of understanding woven deeply into her soul, lending a steel to her spine and her mind that she shouldn't have had to deal with for years yet.

And it would get worse.

Emerging swiftly into the morning sunshine, Boromir inhaled deeply. It was only a short, twenty feet or so stretch to the stables, situated only on the other side of the small courtyard, and he intended on enjoying as much of the fresh air ripe with the fragrance of summer before he was dragged back inside after negotiations concluded. Éowyn too seemed eager, wriggling in a silent demand to get down as she gazed brightly and with no little wonder at the horses out of their stalls as they were led in a series of exercises by their trainers. Truly, the trainers of Minas Tirith were accomplished horse riders yet Boromir was certain the equestrian riders in Rohan were incomparable.

Éowyn seemed to take delight in the bays and the greys, in the chestnut stallion and the dappled mares, however, squealing her happiness and laughing as she stared around; her joy was a balm to Boromir, though he didn't know what it was a balm for, and he found himself grinning along with her as he named the horses and trainers, his finger pointing toward each of them individually.

"That is Voronwë," he said, gesturing to a fine gelding snorting near the stable entrances before moving his point to a smaller horse beside him, "and that is his brother, Cirion."

"Can I stroke them?" She asked, curiously, peering up at Boromir hopefully.

He set her down, crouching with her until he was eye level with her and placing a hand on her shoulder. "You can stroke Voronwë," he told her, gravely, "but only Voronwë. He will not take kindly to anyone who touches his brother."

"Why?"

"He is very protective."

"Like Éomer?" She asked, standing on her tip toes to look over his shoulders with shining eyes at the horse, a small grin curling at the corners of her mouth. "Éomer is very, very protective. He likes to punch people who call me a child of Morgoth even though Uncle says he isn't supposed to."

"Er, yes. Like Éomer," he replied, wondering who called Éowyn the child of Morgoth and how many times it must have happened for Éomer punching them to become an 'Éomer likes to' thing instead of an 'Éomer once punched someone' thing.

She tottered off, skipping every third step with her skirt swishing around her ankles and her hair slapping her back, grinning and waving at the stable hands as she headed towards Voronwë, leaving them all very obviously charmed as they watched her go past. Boromir followed slower behind, his eyes trained on her as she reached up to pat Voronwë's front leg with a delighted laugh and laughed along with her. Faramir's joking accusations of him being a mother hen had probably never be as true as now- Éowyn was, for better or for worse, the type of child who inspired the need to be protected, and her parents were dead which left two spaces free, though Théoden was no doubt doing the best he could.

Not that Boromir would dare try to assume the other position; it had only been fifteen-twenty minutes and he was already exhausted.

"My lord! My lord Boromir!" A voice cried from behind him, out of breath and harried. Boromir turned, surprised, to see one of his father's councillors hurrying towards him with red cheeks and a heaving chest. The portly man's face was shining with copious amounts of sweat, his beady eyes fatigued but clearly purposeful as he scurried over.

"Whatever is the matter now?" Boromir called out, taking a broad step forward and watching the councillor open his mouth to address Boromir just as he heard the horrifying sounds of a furious horse and a high, ringing scream.

_Éowyn!_

Boromir didn't stop to think.

Without stopping, he swung around on his heels, snapping into a sprint as soon as he was facing the way Éowyn had went off only seconds before. The girl was on the floor, scrambling back as Voronwë reared up in front of her, eyes rolling to show their whites, teeth bared in a vengeful snarl, and behind him, Cirion cringed into the stable wall, shying away. Boromir flung himself forward, cobbles scraping his hands and knees as he skidded in a collision course with Éowyn and the furious gelding.

He reached her just as the great hooves came crashing down.

He felt her small body get swept up in his arms, her face wet with tears as she burrowed into the crook of his neck, and he tried desperately to shield her, bowing over her and moving his hands to protect her head. He was still sliding past, still moving towards Voronwë, and he gave a yell of adrenaline and fear, feeling his blood surge in his veins, fizzing and crackling with electricity, just as Voronwë brought his hooves down with a clattering, shattering impact that rattled his teeth and jarred his bones. Boromir came sliding out the other side, Éowyn wrapped in his embrace, unscathed barring the cuts and bruises he had gained from his frantic rush forward- Éowyn too had broken the skin on her palms from her first attempts at evading the furious horse. She sobbed, glaring at Voronwë with bright, offended eyes, and Boromir was honestly wondering how she wasn't trembling as he was.

"Boro! Boromir!"

"Éowyn!"

"Sister!"

"My lord! My lord, are you alright!"

"No, Voronwë! No!"

Boromir huffed a shaky laugh, picking up Éowyn easily, he looked over at the doors where the terrified and pale councils member from both Rohan and Gondor stood, Faramir beside their father too, and waved, nudging Éowyn to do the same. No doubt his father had somehow managed to bash heads with Théoden in the first fifteen minutes of council in the usual Denethor way, decided upon a break to soothe irritated tempers and sent the councilman to inform him, probably asking servants which way he had taken Éowyn and tagging along behind him to the courtyard where they had witnessed Voronwë's attack.

"You know how to make a dramatic first impression, don't you, Éowyn?" He told her, already moving towards his family- hopefully to pawn off the child to someone else.

* * *

to be continued.

**Author's Note:**

>  **next in series.**  
>  Tales For Hobbits: As the Fellowship meet properly for the first time, Merry and Pippin get to know the Man from Gondor by listening to an old tale for the children of Minas Tirith.


End file.
